


In The Fell Clutch of Circumstance

by DreamBrother



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-22
Updated: 2012-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-05 20:36:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamBrother/pseuds/DreamBrother
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All it takes is a warm summer’s day and the sting of a wasp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from William Ernest Henley's poem 'Invictus'.
> 
> First foray into Cabin Pressure fanfiction, hope you enjoy!

The warm weather that had proved elusive for all of April and much of May had taken finally taken mercy on the inhabitants of the British Isles. Douglas Richardson draped his uniform jacket over his arm as he got out of his car and pressed the lock button. The sun was shining, there was a light breeze, and best of all, he’d been invited to spend the next three days at the Bournemouth home of his former university flatmate. Seeing as the excellent weather was set to continue for the next week and MJN Air had no bookings coming up that would interfere, Douglas could almost feel the sand under his feet.

Walking towards the portacabin where he expected the rest of the crew to be assembled on their final day of standby for Mr I-never-call-unless-the-crew-is-drunk-Goddard, Douglas spotted the lean form of his commanding officer leaving the hanger where their plane was parked. He slowed down his pace so Martin could catch up with him.

“Well, if it isn’t Commander Crieff blinding one and all with the reflection of the sun on his ginger locks,” quipped Douglas in hello. “If the runway lights at Fitton ever stop working on a day like this, we’ll just use you instead as a beacon for the incoming plane.”

“Ha ha Douglas. You’ll excuse me if I don’t praise your wit as I’ve heard that one before,” Martin responded as he walked over, squinting as the sun was behind Douglas.

“Oh, have you? Well, one can’t hope to be a paragon of originality all the time, especially in the presence of _sir_ ,” Douglas replied. “What were you doing in Gertie’s hanger? Did Goddard call?”

“No, but Carolyn still isn’t best pleased that you’re an hour late. I was grabbing some sugar packets, we’ve run out in the office and Arthur forgot to get more.” Martin opened his hand to show the white packets he held, including oddly enough, one with the Starbucks logo on it.

“I’m sure Carolyn will find it somewhere in her heart of hearts to forgive me for my tardiness, the heat multiplies the time it takes for me to get ready in the morning.” Douglas smiled at the look the younger man shot his way at the less-than-stellar excuse.

“It is quite hot isn’t it, especially after the weather we’ve had?” Martin agreed, running a finger under the sleeves of his shirt which he had folded up to his elbows.

“I hope you’ve put on enough sun block lotion,” Douglas warned, “you’re red enough as it is without adding a horrendous sunburn on top.”

“Is the theme for today going to be jokes based on my hair co-OW!” Martin yelped and brought his right arm close to his body.

“What’s wrong?” Douglas asked, slightly alarmed although the flash of something yellow and black floating behind Martin was enough to make an educated guess.

“I think something just b-bit me! I think it was a wasp. Ow, that really hurt!”

Douglas leaned in to look and bit down a laugh as he saw that a small area near Martin’s elbow had indeed gone red, standing out sharply in contrast against the man’s paler-than-pale skin. Clapping a hand on his captain’s shoulder, he led them towards the portacabin. “We should get inside. Knowing your luck, there’s probably a swarm of wasps waiting to descend upon us at any moment.”

“Even if there was one, they would probably leave you alone and just come after me,” Martin grumbled.

Douglas opened the door for both of them. “Put some ice on that. I’ll go let the boss know that your bad luck is still going strong. She may have some paracetamol to help with the pain.”

“Thanks, Douglas.” Martin went in first and headed towards the old, third-hand mini-fridge/freezer that they kept in the corner, mostly for milk and some refreshments for any clients who may drop by.

Inside, Arthur was sitting cross-legged on the floor, the foundations of a house of cards in front of him. And in what was a first, the steward’s concentration was so focused on placing the next card that he did not acknowledge Douglas’s presence, nor the fact that his Skip was rooting around in the mini-freezer with pain evident on his face. Smiling to himself at the sight of Arthur with his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he focused, Douglas made his way to the small private cupboard in the portacabin which doubled as Carolyn’s office.

Knocking sharply once and then pulling the door open, he announced:

“Have no fear, for the Sky God is here, to gra-.”

“Douglas, sit down, shut your face and sign these forms in sixty seconds or I dock your pay for being late,” Carolyn interrupted, not looking up from where she was scribbling away on the papers in front of her.

“Yes ma’am.” Douglas pulled out the empty seat on his side of the desk and sat down, grabbing a pen from a mug full of them. As a strategist, he knew when to pick his battles and right now, the most important battle to be won was for the Sands of Bournemouth. Although MJN Air was not booked for anything, he still had to okay the time off with Carolyn. Keeping her in a good mood – or rather, not sending her into a foul one – was one step closer towards getting his way.

Carolyn looked up at the lack of argument. “No comments or excuses?” Her eyes narrowed. “You want something. What is it? Spit it out now.”

“Oh Carolyn, do you really think so little of me? Could it not be that perhaps I’m simply in a complacent, easy-going mood?”

“No. You want something, and when you do, you’re more relentless than Henry the VIII in his desire for a son.” She put her pen down and crossed her arms on the desk. “What is it?”

“Well, since you’re asking so-.”

For the second time in two minutes, Douglas was interrupted.

“Skip!” Arthur’s shout reverberated through the thin door separating Carolyn’s office from the rest of the portacabin. “Douglas! Mum!”

“What’s happened now?” Douglas wondered aloud as he stood up quickly and yanked open the office door. He wasn’t sure what to expect but the sight of Martin collapsed motionless on the floor with Arthur crouched over him did not enter the top ten.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Martin!”

With a speed that would have made his daughter proud during the Father’s Run on Sports Day, Douglas erased the distance between him and his fellow pilot. Kneeling down next to him, he could hear the sharp gasps that were coming from the younger man. Grabbing Martin by the shoulders, he shifted him so that he could lie flat on his back in an attempt to ease his troubled breathing. The move brought Martin’s face into view and Douglas bit back a gasp as he saw raw red patches marring his friend’s skin and the sheer panic in his eyes.

“Arthur, what happened?” Douglas asked as he removed the tie around Martin’s neck and undid the buttons of his shirt in hopes that it would help but the wheezing only got worse.

“I don’t know! I was just building my house of cards and Skip was just sitting at his desk. He got up and I think he wanted to go out but he just fell! Oh God, what’s that on his chest?”

“That, Arthur, is what happens when you have an allergic reaction,” Douglas said grimly. Behind him, he could hear Carolyn on the phone in her office, no doubt calling 999. Not only did he have three years of medical school informing his decision, he was also a parent who had hosted get-togethers for his daughter’s friends - one of whom was severely allergic to peanuts and therefore could go nowhere without an epinephrine pen and her parents informing the host parents about their daughter’s condition.

 “Arthur, have your mother tell emergency services that Martin’s experiencing a severe allergic reaction and then go outside and wait for the ambulance. If you see Dirk, have him wait at the gate.” For once, Arthur ran to do as he was told without reconfirming any of the details.

Turning his full attention to the man on the ground, Douglas softened his tone. He took hold of one of Martin’s hands and placed the other on his forehead.

“Martin, I know you’re having difficulty breathing so I won’t ask you to speak. If you understand what I’m saying, squeeze my hand.” He smiled as he felt the slight pressure on his hand.

“Good. Now, squeeze my hand if you’ve never had something like this happen before.”

Another squeeze.

“Squeeze again to confirm you don’t have an epinephrine pen hidden somewhere?”

Squeeze.

“I thought so.”

Never, in all their time in the cockpit, during hours of conversation and random sharing of information to stave of boredom and insanity, had Martin ever mentioned he had an allergy, let alone a life-threatening one. No “ _Oh, by the way, if I ever stop breathing, don’t panic, just stab me in the thigh with this magic pen I keep in my bag._ ” And Douglas knew that it would hardly be in keeping with his co-pilot’s personality to not take supreme care when it came to health and safety, even his own.

“D-d-douglas.”

“Shush, Martin. Just focus on breathing, Carolyn’s called for an ambulance.” Douglas hoped he had managed to force unconcerned cheeriness into his voice for Martin’s sake, because in truth his heart was pounding faster than Martin’s, whose pulse he was now taking from his wrist. It was getting painful simply listening to Martin’s strangled inhalations and the impact on his body was revealed through the blue tinge to his lips. “Just stay calm.”

He was only partially aware of the fact that the hand he’d kept on Martin’s forehead was stroking through his hair, in a move he’d done for his daughter many a time when she’d been sick and he and her mother were still together. Unwittingly, a snippet of conversation from long ago entered into his mind.

_‘Martin, I’m old enough to be your father!’_

_‘Not unless you started very young!’_

_‘I did.’_

The man under his hand may have been his commanding officer, but all Douglas could see at the moment was a friend, frightened and in pain. For all of Douglas’ track record of getting himself, and sometimes the entire MJN crew, out of tricky situations, he had never felt so helpless as he did at this moment – unable to do nothing except hold Martin’s hand as the man fought for every single breath which would keep him alive.

“You’re doing well, Martin. Just keep breathing, and stay awake. Squeeze my hand as hard as you want, if it makes you feel better. Can’t hurt worse than when you trapped it in the cabin door.” Douglas attempted a sardonic smile but it faltered when he realized that the gap between each attempted breath was increasing. He was just about to yell for Carolyn when the woman herself crouched down on the other side of Martin.

“Ambulance should be here in less than four minutes. The ground staff have been alerted, they’ll bring it here immediately. Martin, they’re coming all the way here for you, the least you can do is be awake for them,” Carolyn ordered.

Douglas felt Martin squeeze his hand at this, although considerably weaker than before.

“I think the Captain wants you to know he’ll try his best,” he offered, his thumb now running across the back of Martin’s hand. As such, he knew the exact second when Martin’s hand went limp in his, losing what little tension it had held.

“What is it?”

“I think... Martin!” Douglas shook him slightly, his worry increasing by each passing second. Bending his head down, he placed his ear over Martin’s nose and mouth. Nothing.

“Come on, Martin. Wake up,” Douglas snapped, rubbing a knuckle over Martin’s sternum. Panic as he’d never felt before, even when a bird strike had destroyed one of Gerti’s engine in mid-flight, overtook him when Martin didn’t even so much as flinch at the painful stimuli. In the past few seconds, his skin had taken on a deeper shade of blue and his eyes were closed.

“Douglas, what is it?” He heard Carolyn snap, although he could tell by her tone she knew exactly what was happening. “Martin, wake up right this moment.”

“Time for the Captain and I to get a bit up close and personal,” Douglas muttered as he let everything he had ever learned about CPR come to the forefront of his mind. He’d never done it in an emergency situation before, but seeing as he was good at everything he set his mind to, saving Martin Crieff’s life would just have to be one of those things.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be up sometime next week.
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not a medical professional, so if there are any errors I ask for your forgiveness. Feel free to drop me a line to correct me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: While I have done my research, I have little experience of hospitals and doctors (thankfully), therefore can only apologize for any errors committed in ignorance.

Douglas Richardson was not a religious man. That didn’t mean he wasn’t a praying one, when the situation called for it. He liked to think he and God had a special relationship based on a very simple understanding – as long as the Big Boss intervened and didn’t let the big things get too bad, Douglas would not bother him with the little things; he would simply rely on his own charm, wit and intellect to get him through the day-to-day. However, Douglas was more than willing to clasp his hands together – metaphorically - when it came to the health and happiness of his only child, for example.

Today, however, today called for a short prayer, a whisper of gratitude. It was three o’clock in the afternoon on one of the warmest and sunniest days England had experienced in the dismal summer season so far. Douglas was sat on a not-too-uncomfortable chair in a curtained bay in the William Harvey Hospital of Fitton. Although one hand was resting on his thigh while the other acted as a rest for his chin, the words running through Douglas’s mind would not be out of place in a church, a mosque, or a synagogue.

_Thank you, for my knowledge and skills. Thank you for not letting me witness the death of a friend. Thank you, thank you, thank you..._

The litany in Douglas’s mind stopped as the man in the bed in front of him shifted. A shock of red hair was the only colour that stood out, and Douglas watched as a pale hand snaked out of the blankets to nudge against the oxygen mask covering the lower part of his friend’s face. Just as Douglas thought to move to prevent Martin from dislodging the piece of equipment that was providing him with the valuable oxygen he’d been forcibly deprived of mere hours ago, the hand settled back against the bed and Douglas knew Martin was still fast asleep.

However, forty minutes and a cup of coffee later, it was evident that Martin was on the brink of consciousness. From the increase in small movements to the furrow of his ginger eyebrows, Douglas could almost feel his friend’s confusion as he slowly woke up in an unfamiliar bed surrounded by strange noises and smells, with a plastic contraption wrapped around his face.

“Martin, are you awake?” Douglas spoke up in the hopes his voice would speed up the process and inject some sort of familiarity into foreign surroundings. Plus, he’d been sat here for a few hours already and a sleeping Martin was not much company.

A sliver of grey was the result as Martin turned his head towards the source of his voice and cracked his eyes open.

Douglas smiled. “Afternoon, Captain,” he said, reaching forward slightly to press the call button. The head nurse had allowed him to stay on the promise that he inform them immediately when Martin awoke, and that he would do nothing to stress their patient. The latter was a joy to achieve on a normal working day, but Douglas had figured today could be a day of exceptions.

“Douglas?” Martin’s voice was croaky, and muffled due to the oxygen mask; not at all like his normal just-woke-from-a-deep-sleep voice that Douglas was used to from nights spent sharing a cheap hotel room or bunking in Gertie on even cheaper flights.

Some of the tension that Douglas hadn’t even been fully aware of left his shoulders. “At your service.” Leaning forward so that Martin’s half opened eyes could see him better, he added: “We’re in hospital. How are you feeling?”

Before Martin could answer, Nurse Ellis walked in (always easier to charm people into letting you have your way if you knew their names) followed by the doctor who had spoken to Douglas earlier about Martin’s condition, Dr. Soyinka - a tall, well-built, middle-aged man of Nigerian heritage. His deep baritone, soft and calm manner of speaking, and general air of serenity spoke of popularity with nervous patients. Not that Martin would fall into that category.

Douglas stood, pushing his chair back to allow for more room and giving the medical professionals space to work. The nurse replaced the oxygen mask with a nasal cannula as Dr. Soyinka pulled a penlight out of his pocket.

“Captain Crieff, I’m Dr. Soyinka, I’m in charge of your care. Before I say anything else, I just need to quickly check a few things.”

From his previous conversation with Dr. Soyinka and his own limited knowledge, Douglas knew that the good doctor was checking to see if Martin has suffered any neurological damage from the oxygen deprivation he’d experienced, thankfully not for very long due to the quick arrival of the paramedics and Douglas’ own actions.

“Good, excellent,” Dr. Soyinka said as he finished. Martin had responded to the man’s questions with the air of someone going along with the charade but desperately wanting answers. Douglas had noticed his colleague look to him more than once and he’d calmly settled into a position which would put him in Martin’s line of sight.

“Now, Captain Crieff, you’re in William Harvey hospital and it’s almost four o’clock in the afternoon. What can you remember of your day?” Dr. Soyinka asked.

Martin rubbed his nose as he thought; an action Douglas had seen him do many times, particularly when the younger man was stuck during one of their word games. “Uhh... getting up, getting to the airfield... we’re on standby so I was doing some paperwork... umm... had to grab something from the plane, Douglas arrived and went to speak with Caroline...” Martin frowned. “Don’t remember what happened after that... Did I ... slip and hit my head? That would be just my luck.”

Douglas smiled slightly and saw it reflected on the doctor’s face. “Nothing like that, Captain Crieff. From the information gathered, you were stung by a wasp at approximately 10 15 am. This resulted in a severe allergic reaction which led to anaphylaxis at about 10 20am. Emergency services took about seven minutes to reach you and you were brought to the A&E at around quarter to eleven. The fact that you don’t remember much prior to the reaction is hardly a surprise, but some memory may come back to you over time.”

Martin nodded thanks to Nurse Ellis as she handed him a cup of water, taking a sip before speaking. “I got stung by a wasp and it landed me in hospital?” He gave a disbelieving huff and Douglas frowned slightly.

“Uh, yes.” Dr. Soyinka confirmed. “There’s no record in your medical file of your allergy so I assume this is the first time you’ve suffered a reaction so extreme.”

“With all due respect, Doctor, but I can’t be allergic to wasps. I’ve been stung before, as a child, and I was fine.”

“To be expected as most allergies to insect venom develop after the first sting, making the recurring stings much more severe,” Dr. Soyinka explained patiently. “We ran tests to confirm that you had indeed suffered an allergic reaction. The paramedics administered epinephrine on the scene to counter-act the effects and you were intubated as your breathing function was severely compromised at the time.”

Alarmed by the colour leeching out of Martin’s face at this information, Douglas moved to stand by his bedside, casually placing his elbow on the railing by Martin’s shoulders.

“Is that why my chest hurts?” Martin asked, a slight squeak to his voice.

“That would be the reason your throat hurts,” Dr. Soyinka replied. “You have a rib fracture as a side effect of the CPR administered prior to the arrival of the paramedics. Please do not worry, however, you should experience no serious after effects as a result of this morning. We would like to keep you until morning for observation and so that you may rest. You must be tired, and have been given a lot of information. I’ll check on you again in a few hours to discuss steps to handle your allergy. Do you have any questions for now? Of if you prefer, you can just rest now and ask me them later.”

“Later, thank you,” Martin replied. Dr. Soyinka nodded and tapped Martin’s knee in farewell, drawing the curtain closed behind him.

There was quiet in the cubicle for a few minutes, and Douglas did not want to interrupt while Martin slowly digested all that he’d been told, the revelation that he’d almost died at Fitton. It would be hard on anyone, and Douglas was just about to offer an excuse to go to the loo or cafeteria to give Martin some time alone when the younger man spoke up:

“So I guess this means I forfeit the cheese tray to you for the rest of our flights together.”

Douglas frowned, wrong-footed. “What are you talking about?”

Martin motioned to his chest and the hospital bed. “I’m not an idiot. Doesn’t take a genius to deduce that you were the one to give me CPR.”

Martin held his gaze and for a rare moment, Douglas was unsure of what to say. Focusing on the weariness on Martin’s face and that he looked moments away from nodding off, he chose to ignore the man’s words for now.

“Get some rest. I’m starving so I’m going to go grab some food. You’ll be fine?”

Martin nodded before turning his head and closing his eyes. In a minute, his breathing had settled and the mask of sleep had slackened his features. Douglas waited five more minutes before resting his hand on his friend’s head for a moment and then gathering his jacket and leaving.

_Thank God he’s fine..._

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in this chapter! Next one should be up by Sunday.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Once again, apologies for any errors of ignorance on the medical side of things.
> 
> A/N: Sorry for the delay! The chapter ran away from me, and became much longer than intended so I've had to shift scenes to the next chapter.

“Martin?”

Douglas nudged shut the door behind him with his foot as he dropped his keys onto the small table in the hallway, into the small bowl that also contained loose change and various knick-knacks that always cluttered his pockets.

Hearing no reply, he peeked into the small bedroom on his right which was currently accommodating the Captain of MJN Air. Empty. The kitchen and living room were also devoid of a certain ginger-haired midget although the TV was on and the screen was showing Jeremy Clarkson wax poetic about yet another Lamborghini that 98% of Britons could not afford. Noting that the door to the loo was shut, Douglas simply shrugged and went into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of cold apple juice.

The weather had continued to be extremely warm and dry, and the flat was barely cooler than outside. Even the fact that all the windows in the second floor spacious flat were open didn’t help matters much.

 _Might have to invest in a few standing fans_ , Douglas mused. This was the first summer he would be spending in his new abode, having sold the house he’d lived in when he’d been with his ex-wife, Helena. He’d managed to negotiate quite a deal with the real estate agent for this new home, and it still gave him a small thrill of pleasure at the skill he’d displayed. If only it had been under better circumstances than finding out his wife was cheating on him with a tall, lanky Tai Chi-ing, organic-food eating, non-caffeine drinking male version of a floozy, whatever that was.

Making his way to the living room and settling down to finish out the Top Gear episode, Douglas’s mind wandered once more to his temporary housemate. The prime reason for obtaining a two-bedroom apartment was in the hopes that his daughter would spend the summer holidays with him. The schools were still in session for a few more weeks and Douglas was more than happy to cohabite with his fellow pilot for a few days, at the very least. Considering he was used to spending hours on end in a tiny flight deck with no entertainment save what games he and Martin could come up with, days in a spacious apartment with the freedom to come and go as you please, a 42-inch television and a fully equipped kitchen with enough coffee to feed a bank full of traders, it would be a breeze.

Not that the fellow pilot had been as quick to agree as Douglas had been to offer.

After having left Martin to sleep on his first day in hospital, Douglas had walked to the nearest cafe and taken up root. He’d practically inhaled his late lunch and had held a cup of tea in front of his face, inhaling the familiar fumes deeply to replace the repulsive, anti-septic smell all hospitals had, the kind of smell you could actually feel at the back of your throat. He’d then taken out his mobile and set about making calls.

First, to his friend in Bournemouth to decline his invitation and that while he would have loved nothing more than to visit and relax, his boss had booked them for back-to-back flights for the next week and that if the warm weather was still holding when he got back, Douglas would give him a call and see about rescheduling the visit.

Then, to Carolyn who’d waited with him when the paramedics had first brought Martin to A&E and had only left when Martin had been stabilized and moved to a ward for observation and rest. She and Arthur had then gone back to the airfield to make sure Goddard didn’t call an empty office, although what she was planning to do if he did when both her pilots were unavailable, Douglas didn’t care to ponder. In any case, it was past time that Goddard would call and if they had not left for home, they would be on their way to William Harvey. Arthur picked up the phone when Douglas dialled Carolyn’s number and in short, Martin was fine, he was asleep, visiting hours were till eight p.m. so they had plenty of time. Also, could they maybe sneak in some food for Martin since the coffee was crap and Douglas didn’t hold high hopes for the cuisine. Douglas himself would be going back at about half six to check on Martin and they could come by seven provided the young captain was feeling up for company. Not that he’d be given much choice, either way, what with the ferociousness worthy of a frightened bear mother in Carolyn and the child-worthy eagerness of a worried-but-Skip’s-always-fine Arthur.

When he’d gone back, Martin had been sitting up in bed speaking to Dr. Soyinka, nodding with a grave expression on his face. Giving them some privacy, Douglas had hung back by the nurse’s station, keeping an eye out for the head nurse he’d met earlier.

Making his way over to Martin as Dr. Soyinka moved on to another patient, he passed over the small paper bag he’d been holding. At the odd look he received, Douglas simply shrugged.

“Shouldn’t you be at home?” Martin asked as he reached into the bag and drew out a vanilla cupcake with chocolate frosting, taking care not to dislodge the IV in the back of his hand, and set about eating it hungrily.

“Should I be?”

“It’s late. You saw I was fine earlier. You must be tired from sitting here all afternoon.”

“As compared to sitting in a plane all day? Yes, exhausted.”

“You don’t need to be here, Douglas. I’m fine.”

“Do I strike you as the kind of person who is ever where he doesn’t want to be?”

“Says the man in the co-pilot’s seat.”

Douglas held his tongue and watched, not for the first time, as his colleague’s face flushed a shade of red to rival his hair.

“Douglas... I’m sorry. That was, that was out of line, completely rude and disrespectful and-“

“True,” Douglas interjected. It was, there was no denying it, but at the same time, it would be a rare thing indeed for Douglas to voice that he was, quite surprisingly, happy working for MJN at the time; he was, for lack of a better word, _fond_ of his co-workers. When he could not rely on his personal life to provide stability, he could turn to Arthur to find everything brilliant, to Carolyn for a worthy adversary, and to Martin for company, challenge and a 99% failure rate in all the games they ever played.

Seeing that the comment was still troubling Martin and that the last thing the man needed to round out his day was a guilty conscience, Douglas changed the subject.

“Carolyn and Arthur will be here in about fifteen minutes to see you. Are they discharging you in the morning?”

“Yes, that’s what the doctor said. They just want to keep an eye on me for a little while more.”

“Ok.” Douglas waited a moment before voicing what he’d been considering since he’d first sat by Martin’s bedside that morning. “You’ll be staying with me after they release you, for a week at least.”

“What?” Douglas winced at the hike in pitch and looked around to see if any sleeping patients had been roused. “But why? Why? Why? What. Why?”

“You certainly missed your calling as a philosopher, Martin. Always asking the deep questions in life. And in answer, try lifting both your arms above your head.”

With a glare that only reminded Douglas of his daughter when he’d told her she couldn’t go on the biggest rollercoaster at Alton Towers (in his defense, she didn’t even reach the minimum height level), Martin put the remaining morsel of cupcake on his lap and began to lift both arms – only to stop at about shoulder level with an exclamation of pain, arms wrapping themselves around his chest in an attempt to sooth the pain.

“I’m sorry, but do you see now? I know you can manage, but it’ll be easier all around if you just come stay with me until your chest starts healing.”

“I don’t want to be a burden,” Martin gasped, his face pale with pain.

“You wouldn’t be. I have a spare room, you barely take up any space as it is, and it would hardly be a chore to cook a little more. Besides, what makes you think you’re getting a choice? Your jacket, phone and keys are still at Fitton. I’ll be grabbing some clothes from your place in the morning before picking you up from here. You van can stay at the airfield for now, and if you need anything else -.”

“Douglas, I. Am. Fine.”

“You are now, and if you want to stay that way you’ll shut the hell up and just do what I say,” Douglas snapped with a vehemence that surprised them both.

“Okay, okay,” Martin nodded. “I-I’m just going to finish my cupcake now.”

“Good,” replied Douglas as he reached for the newspaper he’d bought at the cafe and turned to the crossword. “Now, biblical prophet, seven letters, starting with an M.”

“Manahen?”

And so Douglas found himself with a houseguest, even though said houseguest had spent most of his time asleep. Apparently having your body go from healthy to near death, then having CPR performed on it and pumped full of drugs in the space of twenty minutes was quite energy draining.

Drinking the last of the apple juice, Douglas realized it had been twenty minutes since he’d come home. The episode of Top Gear was almost ending and he still had not heard any evidence to suggest another person was in the flat.

Deciding to go knock on the bathroom door to check on his temporary flatmate, Douglas reached to place the empty glass on the coffee table. He froze as his ears picked up a familiar buzzing noise. With a horror he’d never felt before at the sight of an insect, Douglas watched motionless as a wasp landed on top of the day’s copy of The Times. 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter at the weekend. Comments very much appreciated! Thank you for all the kudos and comments so far!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, so sorry about the delay. I won't bother with excuses.

With motions slow enough to do the makers of The Matrix trilogy proud, Douglas carefully took the empty glass he’d been drinking apple juice from and inverted it on top of the wasp, effectively trapping it. On previous occasions, he would have taken the wasp outside and let it go. Not this time, not this wasp however. It could suffocate, entrapped in the confines of the glass, for all Douglas cared. A small, petty revenge against its fellow which had caused his colleague to suffer.

As Douglas made a beeline for the bathroom, three possible scenarios ran through his mind:

First, and worst, would be to find Martin in the midst of another allergic reaction. Or at the end of one.

Second, and almost as bad, would be to find him on the bog, simply suffering from a bad case of the runs.

Third, and also quite possible, the idiot might have slipped and hit his head on something, or quite simply passed out from God knew what. It would not be outside the realm of possibility, considering the man in question had injured himself during a safety demonstration of what _not_ to do in order to prevent injury.

Reaching the door, Douglas called out a warning:

“Martin! I’m coming in.”

With his hand on the doorknob, Douglas pushed the door open, glad it was unlocked but frowning when he met resistance. Fearful for a split second that perhaps the door had been obstructed by a five foot seven body, Douglas looked down and was partially relieved, partially confused when he saw that a towel had been shoved in the gap between the door and the floor. Pushing harder to create a gap wide enough for him to slip in, Douglas finally caught sight of his captain - crouched next to the bathtub, knees up to his chest, arms around his calves, with an epinephrine injection in one hand, and a insect killing spray in the other.

“Martin.”

“Close the door. Please.”

Douglas did so, using his foot to plug the gap with the towel. Walking over to the toilet, he sat down on the closed lid. Even though there was space to sit next to Martin in the spacious bathroom, his knees were not in the condition they’d once been, and his guest was in no physical condition himself to be offering his much heavier host a lift up should Douglas be unable to get up.

“It was cooler. In-in here,” Martin finally said after silence had held for a few minutes.

“Yes,” Douglas agreed readily. “I was just thinking to go out and buy a standing fan or two. They’re saying it’s only going to get hotter over the next few days.”

“Good idea. And they barely cost a tenner in Tesco’s.” Martin nodded in approval.

“Then we can just keep the windows closed and the air should circulate enough to cool the entire flat.”

“Yes, especially if you draw the curtains closed.”

They lapsed into silence again, Martin having yet to make eye contact with Douglas, or release his tight grip on the epinephrine injector and the insect spray. Douglas took advantage of the proximity and silence to take a closer look at his guest –for all that Martin was supposed to be resting to allow his body to recover from the trauma it had suffered, the younger man looked more tired that he had two mornings ago when he’d been first admitted to hospital. Douglas supposed part of it must have been the rib injury, but surely not all of it.

“Martin.”

“Douglas.”

“I’ve taken care of the wasp. It’s okay to go back out now.”

“There could be more.”

“I’ll close the windows and spray the flat again. You can take a shower in the meantime. It’ll soothe your muscles.”

“I’m fine, Douglas.”

“You are many things at many times, _sir_ , but you are far from fine. If you grip that auto-injector any harder, it’s going to break in your hand.”

Martin was silent for a few moments, but he did not loosen his grip.

“I can’t go outside.”

“Yes you can.”

“What if I get stung again?”

“Then you’ll inject yourself in the thigh with that pen, and get yourself to hospital. And if I’m with you, I’m more than happy to shove a needle into your leg.”

“What if we’re abroad? Wasps are everywhere.”

“Please see above answer.”

“Wh-what if I’m out and I forget it? What if... I don’t know... there’s a picnic! And I’ve left it at home!”

“Martin, you’re a stickler for safety protocols. You’re the last person to forget it. And besides, just because now that you know you’re allergic, wasps aren’t declaring open season on you, you’re not going to be swarmed on sight. Other than this week, when was the last time you were stung?”

There was a pause as Martin searched his memory. “When I was ten. My family had gone on a camping trip to Wales.”

“Twenty years. Not bad, considering your luck. Many people go their whole lives without getting stung. And you spend most of your time in a small metal compartment 30,000 feet in the air. If you suddenly decide to take up gardening however, then I can understand why you may have a good reason to be anxious.”

Douglas felt a small ping of triumph as Martin huffed a laugh. “Not bloody likely. Every plant I seem to touch dies within a week. I wasn’t even allowed to water my sister’s sunflower when she went on holiday with her friends.”

“Why am I not surprised? Now, if you’re done leaving an imprint of your arse in the carpet, take a shower while I spray the flat again and close the windows. I need to go to Tesco to get dinner ingredients – Carolyn called and invited herself and Arthur to dinner. She’s bringing dessert – apparently her apple strudel is to die for.” Both men winced at Douglas’ choice of words but made no comment. “Arthur, on the other hand, is bringing his own brand of sweetness in the form of his unbridled enthusiasm, and ice-cream to go along with the strudel.”

Martin smiled slightly. “But everybody hates strudel.”

“If you tell Carolyn you didn’t like her strudel, I will call you sir in front of any and all company for a month.” Standing up, Douglas held his hand out for the spray can.

Martin handed it over, and then used his free hand to push himself up, keeping his other arm pressed close to his chest. Standing up once more, he looked Douglas straight in the eye.

“I would sooner invade a wasp’s nest.”

x-x-x

An hour and a half later found both pilots in the kitchen/dining room of the flat. Douglas was keeping one eye on the white sauce he was making from scratch for the lasagne which was loved by all those who tasted it, and the other eye on Martin who sat at the kitchen table with a knife in his hand. He stifled a laugh at the sight of Martin sticking his tongue out slightly in his intense focus.

After Douglas had returned from Tesco with ingredients for tonight’s supper, and once they’d turned on both of the standing fans he’d purchased, both men had made their way to the kitchen where Douglas had silently handed Martin a chopping board, a large glass bowl and knife and pointed to the kitchen table. He had then taken out the cucumbers, tomatoes, jar of black olives from the Tesco bag, as well as a small block of feta cheese he’d purchased from the small Turkish shop he knew which sold the best Mediterranean ingredients in Fitton, and set them down in front of Martin.

“Greek salad. Your job. Can I trust you not to chop your fingers off in the process?”

Martin had glared him slightly but made no direct response. “Do you have a lemon?”

“We all know what happened last time we played with a lemon, Captain.”

“Not for playing! For the salad. Greek salad always tastes better with a splash of lemon juice.”

Douglas quirked an eyebrow. “Let me check my citrus drawer.”

Rummaging around, Douglas took out one large lemon and held it out.

“A wild lemon appears.”

And while the lemon was currently left whole and untouched since it was honestly taking Martin half an hour to chop a couple of tomatoes and cucumbers. Yes, the man was injured but this was getting ridiculous!

“Martin, if you chop those vegetables any slower, Judgement Day will be upon us in time for you to serve Greek salad to God,” Douglas finally chided.

Martin didn’t look up from where he carefully sliced another section of cucumber.

“I’m trying to make them as uniform as possible. Nobody likes a salad with rashly chopped vegetables of varying sizes.” Martin finished with the cucumber and stood up to retrieve the feta cheese from where he’d placed it in the fridge. Though his movements looked halted and awkward as his body adjusted to accommodate the pain of a heavily bruised chest, Douglas felt a twinge of relief at seeing his friend back on his feet without any obvious indications of what had happened two mornings earlier.

Deciding now was as good a time as any since he was about to start layering the lasagne and popping it into the oven, and even Martin couldn’t take more than fifteen minutes to chop a small block of feta cheese, Douglas chose not to tease Martin further but instead discuss something that had been on his mind

“There are treatments, you know.”

“To help people like roughly chopped salad?” Martin only sounded half-joking and Douglas took a second to worry about the man’s penchant for propriety. Uniformly chopped salad, _honestly?_

“No, you clot, for your newly discovered allergy.”

“Oh. Right. Yes, there is one.”

“Venom immunotherapy, yes?”

“Yeah, I think that was it.”

“And?”

“And what?  Dr. Soyinka wanted to me talk to the allergy specialist about it but I didn’t want to. I don’t think I’ll be undertaking it.”

“Why not?” Even though Douglas had his back turned to his colleague as he carefully layered the meat-pasta-sauce, he knew Martin had paused in his work.

“I don’t really fancy the idea of deliberately having poison injected into my veins for a year in the hopes that I’ll grow immune to it, thanks. ”

“Is that the only reason?”

“Well… that, and it’s just not something I’d be able to maintain for the period of time that it would need.”

“Why not?”

“For a start, it means weekly injections. How am I supposed to take a couple of hours out each week, every week, when most of my time is spent 30,000 feet in the air and the rest driving a van hauling stuff around. I hardly doubt Carolyn is going to turn away clients because her Captain has a standing appointment every Saturday at five o’clock at William Harvey Hospital.”

Douglas turned around in disbelief. “ _Martin_. Do you honestly think Carolyn would stop you from undertaking treatment that could correct a life-threatening allergy?”

Martin shifted in his chair, made slightly uncomfortable by the look in his First Officer’s eyes. “I’m not saying she would want to just for kicks, she just won’t be able to help it. It’s not as though we have clients queuing up clamouring to give MJN business, that she can turn them away because of me.”

“Martin, you are working for Carolyn for free. Without you, MJN would not _be_ in business.”

Douglas watched as the man in front of him turned almost as red as the tomatoes he’d chopped.

“First, your argument is facetious, and if Carolyn were here and she knew you used her as an excuse to not get better, she would fire you on the spot. Second, the weekly dose will only be for the first two months or so, the injections will taper over time. Don’t give me that look, I know what I’m talking about and don’t ask why. Finally, if it’s about the injections, you will be in hospital and they will keep an eye on you until they’re sure you’re not going to react again. You’ve landed a plane on one engine in a strong crosswind – you can handle a little _pin prick_ here and there in perfect conditions.”

Douglas turned back to the lasagne so that Martin would not see him bite his lip against saying more. The man had frankly looked taken aback at Douglas’s sudden onslaught of righteous medical advice.

Who was he to tell Martin what to do? Especially in terms of medical treatment. He’d begun the conversation in the hopes that the man would, if he didn’t already, realize that his allergy didn’t have to define him now that he was aware of it, that there were options. That he wouldn’t have to hide in the toilet of his home because a wasp had come through the window. So that he would be able to sightsee in a foreign country without wondering if the emergency services were good enough to get him to hospital in time should he be stung again and suffer another severe reaction.

So that the four of them could go on a damn picnic without fearing for Martin’s life because damn it, the weather was _just too good_ to waste indoors.

However, the fact still remained. He had no right. He fought down his innate resistance to admit he was wrong about something and opened his mouth to apologize.

“Martin, look I-“, he began before he was suddenly cut off.

“I’ll think about it.”

“What?”

“I’ll go talk to the allergy specialist they referred me to. I’ll… think it over. And run it by Carolyn.”

“Ok.” Douglas nodded, pleased. “Ok. Now, are you done with the salad or would you be needing a measuring scale to make sure all components weigh the same?”

“Ha ha, Dougl – ow!”

“What? Did something bite you?” asked Douglas in alarm. The last time Martin had ended a sentence with an exclamation of pain, they’d been at the airfield and Martin had been stung by that infernal wasp.

“No… I just sorta cut my finger, a little bit. Stupid lemon,” Martin muttered in embarrassment. “All fine, though, nothing to worry about!”

Douglas sighed.

“I’ll go get a plaster.”

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 1: Almost at the end. Epilogue next most likely from Martin's POV for a change. If you want to read the about the dinner with the four of them, drop a line and I might add it as a bonus scene once this is finished.
> 
> A/N 2: Venom Immunotherapy (VIT), often recommended when patients suffer a severe allergic reaction to bee/wasp stings. I've researched this a bit. Wasp allergies more common in the UK, and treatment takes a minimum of 3 years, with weekly injections at first, then upping it to reach the maintenance dose at further intervals so that by the end, it's about once a month, then every couple of months etc. Interesting stuff. I'm no medical professional obviously, but just in case you were curious. There are some decent medical papers online about it. Essentially they just dose you with increasing amounts until your body can handle more venom than it would should you get stung again. 
> 
> A/N 3: Thank you for all the comments and kudos! Once again, extremely sorry about the delay. The chapter just didn't come as easily or flow as well, since I ended the previous one where I had not planned. I won't even bother giving a rough ETA of the next chapter, but I'll try not to make it so long.


	6. Epilogue

_2 weeks later_

“Come on, Skip!”

“Alright, alright!” Martin called out before turning back to the lady he’d been speaking to. “So that’s Miss Parker, 37 Clarendon Avenue, Chipping Norton, CN2 1BC?”

“Yes, dearie. And if you give her a ring on the number I gave you about half an hour before you arrive, she’ll make sure she’s home to take in the boxes and she’ll pay you the second half of your fee. ”

With a nod and a smile as goodbye, Martin made his way to his van and an over-excited Arthur who was waiting behind the driver’s seat.

“Let’s go, Skip! The quicker we reach Flipping Carton, the more time we have to look for Jeremy Clarkson’s house!”

“Chipping Norton, Arthur, not Flipping Carton,” Martin corrected as walked over to the driver’s side window. “Now, Arthur, as you can clearly see, I am in perfect condition to drive. Why don’t I drive us there and you can drive us back?”

Arthur, to his credit, only turned the key in the engine. “Sorry Skip, but I’m on mum’s orders and she’s much scarier than you. You’re not allowed to drive until you stop taking the big pain medicine and move onto the little pain medicine. Then she says you can drive and fly all you want. Now get in!”

Martin sighed in defeat and made his way to the passenger side before Arthur decided to drive off without him, even though the map, directions, and address was in his hands. Martin wouldn’t put it past Arthur to get there on enthusiasm and luck alone and should the van break down, somehow find and have Jeremy Clarkson repair and upgrade it.

For all the fuss he’d made, Martin was glad for Arthur’s help. It had only been a little over two weeks since he’d landed in hospital, and his ribs were nowhere near healed. Although he’d been trying to reduce his pain killer intake in the hopes of spending more hours of the day with most of his intellectual faculties in tact, it was hard to do just about anything with injured ribs. Simple movements from turning around, to getting up from a lying down position were causes of sharp jolts of pain, and that was not even considering how each breath was a reminder. Having been taught deep breathing exercises before he’d been discharged to avoid complications such as pneumonia, Martin was looking forward to the day when he’d been able to take a deep breath without his eyes tearing up in pain.

As such, he would not have been able to do this van job had Carolyn not leant Arthur to Icarus Removals and herself taken up the main role of stewarding the short flights MJN Air was now running with Douglas as the sole pilot. Not only was it not recommended to drive when on the medication he was on, the last thing he was physically capable of was to lift and move heavy boxes. In this, Arthur had once again proven himself a cheerful helper, and Martin and the lady who’d hired them had watched with barely concealed awe as the younger man had moved the boxes in three-quarters of the time it would have taken a healthy Martin, while at the same time keeping up a constant narration of his thoughts.

In addition, Martin had barely had a proper night’s rest since all of this had happened. Used to sleeping on his side which was now impossible, sleeping on his back would result in him waking up feeling as though he was being suffocated in his sleep. Douglas, thankfully, had chosen not to comment on his increasing tiredness in the few days he’d spent at his flat, but Martin had noted the older man’s concern through the mugs of warm milk that would be shoved into his hand as soon as evening came.  In fact, it was Douglas who was to thank for this particular moving job in the first place. The call had come on his mobile phone when Martin had been passed out in exhaustion on the sofa in Douglas’s flat. The older man had answered on his behalf and not only confirmed Martin’s availability, but by also persuading the lady to pay £17.50 for the first hour and £12.50 for every recurrent hour, Icarus Removals was earning 50% more per hour than what Martin would have quoted.

When Douglas had informed Martin upon his awakening of this new job, Martin had fretted at the thought and was on the verge of using the first opportunity alone to call and cancel when he was told that Arthur would be acting as muscle and transport with Martin taking on managerial and supervisory duties until Carolyn saw fit. Whether Arthur had been asked his opinion on his new role, Martin wasn’t sure.

“This is just like the time in Spain, isn’t it Skip? You and me, on the road, on an adventure. Except this time we’re not in Spain, we’re here. And you’re not driving a baggage truck, I’m driving your van. And we’re not looking for an engineer, we’re delivering stuff to a lady in Ticking Barton. But other than that, it’s pretty much the same isn’t it?

“Yes, Arthur, it’s just like then,” Martin agreed, as they turned onto the motorway. Yanking open the dashboard, he pulled out the packet he kept there for emergencies and pulled it open.

“Jelly baby, Arthur?”

“Aw brilliant! I love jelly babies! Can I have a red one?”

“You keep your eyes on the road, I’ll fish out the – yellow car! – red ones for you”.

“Good one, Skip, didn’t see that one.”

“You’ll see the other ones,” Martin assured before clearing his throat and taking advantage of Arthur’s concentration on searching for the next yellow car to have his say. “Look, Arthur, I really appreciate you helping me out. I know it’s an inconvenience and you’re missing flights because of this-.”

“No inconvenience at all, Skip,” Arthur cut him off. “Besides, you’re here and you’re still Captain and I’m still steward except we’re in a van. So it’s kind of like MJN on the ground, isn’t it? And I get to do more than make coffee!”

“Arthur.” Martin waited until his friend spared a glance towards him. “Your value is far greater than in just your ability to make coffee.”

Arthur grinned at him, a mixture of happiness and part comprehension. “Thanks, Skip! Can we sing the men went to mow a meadow song, again? I’ve learnt some new animal sounds.”

Martin nodded and they began:

_“Three men went to mow a meadow, went to mow a meadow; three men, two men, one man and his -.”_

_“_ Sheep!”

“Garrrrrrr, Garrrrrrr!”

x-x-x-x-x

_Eight weeks later_

“So what will it be this week, Captain? We have the varied choice of chess, draughts, backgammon and a plethora of card games at our disposal. I would recommend any game that does not rely on you bluffing or lying to win, as we all know how well that turned out,” Douglas cautioned.

“Ha ha, Douglas,” Martin muttered as he made himself comfortable on the hospital bed, and made room for his First Officer to sit with space in between them for a board game. “Chess, please. I think I may just beat you this time.”

“Sir is both confident and desperate for a beating today,” Douglas replied as he opened up the board and began setting the pieces.

It had been eight weeks since the wasp at Fitton, and about seven weeks since his consultation with an allergy specialist. Every Thursday after that at five p.m. found Martin in the hospital’s specialist allergy clinic for his weekly dose of venom immunotherapy. He would be allocated a bed and have his vitals taken and recorded, hooked up to various machines to monitor his condition and then the doctor would inject wasp venom into him. They would then keep Martin under close observation for an hour or so to make sure he didn’t react to the current dosage. 

And each week without fail, Douglas would show up at the clinic bringing a different board or card game to help pass the hour. At first Martin had been stubborn, insisting that he was fine and Douglas should enjoy the day off from MJN duties that Martin’s treatment had imposed on the airdot due to his treatment. Douglas refused to budge, simply stating that as they both were not actively responsible for keeping a large metal container airborne at the time, they could play games which would allow them to be face to face with use of both hands.

As such, the first two weeks had them playing poker - gambling small favours, varieties of cheese, preference of take-offs and landings based on various locations. It was soon obvious that they would have to pick a game less reliant on bluffing and secrecy as the heart monitor attached to Martin would announce to all in the vicinity each time he would have a good set of cards or was trying to bluff his way through a hand. At first, Douglas had found it amusing but soon took pity on the man and his heart-rate, especially when a nurse once came over in alarm at the unsteady rhythm, fearing it was a symptom of the allergy flaring up.

The older man then brought in Battleship from the third week, having picked it up in a charity store. It had gone well at first and both men had enjoyed it to the extent that they would barely notice the hour pass and Martin would still be enthralled in planning his next shot when the a nurse would come over to remove the wires attached to him. Much to Douglas’s impatience, he would often take a minute to mull over his next move, as opposed to the haphazard, quick fire way the older man would place his shots. They had both been fairly equal in terms of their wins before it all came to an end.

It was during Martin’s fourth round of immunotherapy when in the middle of a round, ten minutes after he’d been dosed, he’d grown confused as to what he was doing and his speech slurred as he’d tried to ask Douglas what was going on. After that, Martin’s memory was hazy. He recalled the room growing unsteady around him, an increasing beeping rhythm in the background in contrast with Douglas’s angry voice. He remembered trying to ask Douglas what he was upset about but he’d been confused by the hands pushing him down into a horizontal position on the bed, and the softness under his head being yanked away. All had gone black and when he next woke up, everything had been calm, the board game gone and Douglas had dropped him off to his student house with no word of conversation except to say his van would be brought to him in the morning.

Martin didn’t mention that appointment ever again after, and the weekly games continued with chess and other strategy games but Douglas hadn’t brought Battleship since.

“Check.” Douglas’s voice brings Martin back to the present and the younger man frowns, peering closely at the board.

“No! I’m not in check.” Martin protests. “Don’t lie and think you’ll get away with it, saying I’m in check when I’m not.”

“It was worthy a try. Sir was many miles away so I thought Sir would not mind having his king in jeopardy, even if it was falsely so.”

“Sir very much minds having his king in jeopardy, leave him alone.” Martin dutifully moved his bishop to strengthen the position of his king.

“That would defeat the purpose of the game, Captain, one must be willing to risk losing his king if he is to win.”

“Not anymore! I’ve been reading up on chess strategies. By next month I’ll checkmate you within five moves, mark my words.”

“And if you don’t, you’ll attempt Arthur’s Astonishing Appetizer of the Month?”

Martin pondered this. “Okay, in three months, within ten moves.”

“Deal,” said Douglas as he moved his queen to protect his knight. “I really must start bringing in a timer if you’re going to insist on taking ten minutes to decide which piece to move. Or are you thinking that I’ll forfeit in the hope of leaving the hospital before all my organs cease to function?”

“You exaggerate so,” Martin complained. “You’re trying to distract me, it won’t work.”

“Hasn’t it?” Douglas smirks as he swoops in to take Martin’s castle but the younger man pauses in thought. Having had Douglas here from the start, Martin hardly notices the fact that he’s constantly being watched, that at any moment his body might decide the current dosage is too much and go into anaphylactic shock again, leaving him at the mercy of the medical personnel surrounding him. Had he been here alone for each session, Martin is sure he would have worked himself up into a nervous state and the doctors would find themselves wondering if an allergic reaction was indeed taking place, or if it was just Martin being Martin.

As such, the younger man has hardly the time or privacy to worry himself when he’s trying to maintain the cool façade of airline captain in front of his First Officer.

And Martin couldn’t be more grateful to said First Officer, although he’s yet to think of a way to repay Douglas’s kindness without it embarrassing one or both of them, and being genuine enough to risk ridicule at a later date.

“Yes,” Martin finally agrees to Douglas’s rhetorical question. “Yes, it has. You’re a master of distraction.”

“Glad you agree, and in all honesty this time, check.”

“Damn it.”

**Khatum (The End)**

“ _In the fell clutch of circumstance  
I have not winced nor cried aloud.  
Under the bludgeonings of chance  
My head is bloody, but unbowed.”_

__– Invictus, William Ernest Henley

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: Thank you all for continuing to read thus far, and for all your wonderful comments and reactions. It would not have been as enjoyable a journey without it. I've thoroughly loved my first foray into the fandom. 
> 
> 2: Bonus dinner scene will be up in a week or so, from Carolyn's POV. Also, the sound a sheep makes is indeed as I have described it. Sheep live behind my house. I know sheep. And no, I am not Welsh. And Jeremy Clarkson of Top Gear fame does indeed reside in Chipping Norton, or so Wikipedia tells me. 
> 
> 3\. If you have a Tumblr, please follow me (I'll always follow back), I would love to have more Tumblr friends. My username is dreambrother89. If you have any prompts, feel free to submit. I can't promise anything will come of it, but you never know what sparks might be ignited.


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